The Satyrs

Hear the satyrs calling, crying, As the windy day is dying O'er the rocks; And the shepherd speeds the flocks They're eyeing!

See the satyrs leap and scramble Thro' the briar and brake and bramble; In the glow Of the red sun sunken low They gambol,

Never thinking of the morrow, Without head or heart to borrow Any care. Of all sadness, of all sorrow Unaware.